Mixtape: A Love Song Anthology
Page 24
As he formulated his response, inviting the CEO of Pazzo Shoes, Lydia Hahn, to meet with him, Mal got Evelyn on the phone.
“Boss?”
“My office. Now.”
“On my way.” Thirty seconds later, Evelyn appeared in the doorway. “What’s up?”
Mal stopped typing and sat back in his chair. “Pazzo just emailed me.”
Evelyn’s eyes widened. She moved into the room and crossed her arms, thinking. “Interesting.”
“I thought so too.”
Mal studied her for a moment, watching the squirrels run around in her brilliant mind.
When he and Josh had split up and dissolved their business, Mal had been more upset at the thought of losing Evelyn than he had been about Josh and everything else. Though he would never admit to such a thing out loud.
Still, Evelyn got him as few others did. Maybe no one. Shame he wasn’t even a little bit straight, or he probably would have snatched her up long ago. Married or not.
“What does the email say?”
Mal brought it up on his screen and read aloud. “Intrigued to hear that I’ve parted ways with Josh, curious about the new practice, always respected me, blah blah blah.”
“Hmm.” Evelyn stood behind the chair opposite him. “Pazzo would be a great get.”
“It would,” Mal agreed, eyeing her and waiting for the ‘but’ he thought he heard in her voice.
Evelyn nodded, but her eyes were unfocused, as they often got when she was deep in thought. She would have made a shrewd business attorney, having graduated top of her class at Wharton and paid her dues at top corporate firms up and down the mid-Atlantic coast. Evelyn absorbed corporate law like the proverbial sponge and knew almost as much about it as any lawyer Mal knew. It was one reason Mal had breathed a sigh of relief when she chose to stay with him. Evelyn was one hell of an employee.
She was also his friend, maybe the only one left standing in the aftermath of Josh and Mal.
“Obviously, she wants to meet. But she wants me to make the first move.”
Evelyn smiled. “Of course, she does. Lydia wants you to woo her.”
Mal grinned. “That I can do. Question is, should I?”
Evelyn stepped around the chair and sat down. She crossed her legs, smoothing her steel gray pencil skirt down over her shapely thighs.
Yep. Damn shame Mal wasn’t bi.
Pursing her lips, Evelyn nodded. “I think you’d be crazy not to at least invite her for a meet. Keep it casual, though.”
“I was thinking drinks.”
“That works. It’s less formal, and there’s a built-in expiration date if things get weird.” Evelyn nodded to herself. “What am I saying? It will get weird. Just tell her you have a dinner meeting, but you have some time before.”
Mal frowned. “Why is weird a given?”
“Because Josh may have lost her account, but she has no idea how much you were involved in what happened with the Flavian case.”
The Flavian case. Pazzo’s chief U.S. competitor in the mid-range, fashion shoe market had allegedly stolen designs from Pazzo’s development team. Lydia had suspected espionage and Josh had dismissed the thought as ludicrous. Never to Lydia’s face, not exactly, but his position on the matter was hard to miss. After all, “they were only shoes.” But Cohn and Zaha had taken the case, or rather Josh had. Mal had been neck-deep in another client’s mess.
When the suit was settled out of court, Mal had thought the matter resolved. But then Pazzo abruptly fired the firm, and Josh chalked it up to greed, saying Lydia had wanted more from Flavian than was fair or even plausible. Mal had taken him at his word. He really shouldn’t have. With anything.
The settlement had effectively put Flavian out of business, so there was no more blood to squeeze out of that stone.
“You’re saying I need to woo her without it seeming like I’m wooing her.”
“Exactly,” Evelyn agreed, standing. “Think on it a while.”
Mal nodded to himself. The phone rang, and he put it on speaker.
“Mr. Zaha? The installation is done.”
“Thanks, Quentin.” Mal killed the call and met Evelyn’s eyes. They shared a smile. “He’s all right, that kid.”
“He is.”
Mal rose, and together they walked to the foyer. They found Quentin standing in front of the canvas, which took up most of the wall next to the reception area.
A worker was putting the finishing touches on the small nameplate next to the piece. He stepped back and looked up at the canvas.
“All done.”
“Thank you.” Mal walked up beside the man, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of the painting. Something in that mélange of color and movement called to him on a bone-deep level. Mal didn’t understand it. He liked art, sure, but he’d never had a piece speak to him like this one.
He didn’t need to turn his head to know that Evelyn and Quentin were equally enthralled.
“It’s perfect,” he heard himself say. Mal moved over to the nameplate. Reading the title of the piece for the first time struck him like a bolt of lightning.
‘Closer’ by Pellam Lindt, 2018
Oil on Canvas
It was as if the artist had reached down to the bottom of Mal’s soul and not only dredged up every want and need he had but was showing him that each and every one of them mattered. Bringing to light desires Mal had locked away in a very old, very dark place.
He needed to know more about Pellam Lindt, whoever they were. He needed to look into their eyes and see himself reflected in them.
“Ev, does Lydia like art?” Mal turned to meet her coffee-brown eyes.
“I believe she is one of the main supporting patrons at the Barnes, so I’d say so.”
Mal stepped back and looked up at the painting again. “Didn’t you say the other pieces I requested are still on display at the gallery?”
“Yes, the Mayer gallery on Race Street.” Mal could almost hear her put the pieces together. “And I believe the reception for the new exhibit is next Friday. It only makes sense you would want to go take a look at them in person.”
Mal turned to Quentin. “Contact the Mayer gallery and let them know I’ll be there.”
“Yes, Mr. Zaha.” Quentin made a bee-line for his desk.
“Oh, and Quentin?” Mal waited for the young man to meet his gaze. “My father was Mr. Zaha. You can call me Malcolm.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Pell would have been lying if he’d said he had given no more thought to the mysterious person who had bought his most personal, most revealing work to date. So, when Brianne Mayer told him that the man himself, someone named Malcolm Zaha, was coming to the opening reception, Pell got honest-to-goodness chills.
Malcolm Zaha. Just the name conjured images of power, wealth, and mystery.
That is, until Brianne informed him Zaha was an attorney, and that the six-foot canvas that Pell had poured his blood, sweat, and tears into now hung behind the front desk of a fucking law firm. It would take everything in him for Pell not to march right up to the guy and demand to buy the painting back from him.
Only, he’d voiced that thought to Brianne and Amelia both, and both women had shot him down. Hard.
“Don’t be an idiot.” Amelia had said to him as they lounged on her plush, comfy sectional early Friday morning.
Pell had been pouting, and he knew it. This should have been the most exciting day of his life. His own corner in an exhibit at a major gallery in a big city like Philadelphia? He should have been over the moon. Instead, Pell kept glancing at the door during the reception and taking guesses at which attendee could be Malcolm Zaha.
“You should have just looked him up online.” Amelia was lovely in her royal blue maxi dress. It flowed over her curves like water. She popped a shrimp ball into her mouth and washed it down with a few sips of red wine.
Pell was too wound up to eat. “I did search for him. I couldn’t find
any photos, well none that showed me definitively what he looked like.”
“Ohhhh,” she sighed. “I do love a good mystery.”
“Not much of a mystery. He’s a lawyer who thinks fine art is something to hang behind the potted plant in his office.”
Amelia laughed. “Geez, Pell. Generalize much? He could be an environmental lawyer or an entertainment lawyer, or he could- “
Pell didn’t hear whatever else came out of Amelia’s mouth because his focus had snagged on the tall, impossibly handsome man who had just stepped through the door.
He was well over six feet with warm brown skin, bright hazel eyes, and a body that made his suit look like an extension of his aura. One hand in his pocket, the other dangling casually at his side as he took in the room, he was the very picture of grace and command.
The fingers on Pell’s right hand twitched, something they did when he needed to paint. And he needed to paint this man.
“Merde.”
“Do you think that’s him?” Amelia had moved in close. Her breath tickled Pell’s ear as she spoke.
“God, no.” The very thought made Pell queasy.
The guy had such a regal air about him. Pell thought perhaps he was an actor, or maybe a conductor for the Philharmonic. Or an opera singer, he had the presence. Or he could have been the CEO of some major foundation or – gasp! – the curator at a New York museum. No, London.
Pell rolled his eyes at his own flights of fancy. Still, something about the guy piqued Pell’s interest in a way that no ambulance-chasing lawyer ever could.
But as the man made his way across the room, his gaze never landing on any one piece of art for more than a second or three, Pell’s conviction wavered. Particularly when he stopped to talk to a woman Pell knew from his volunteer work at the Barnes.
Lydia Hahn was the CEO of a clothing company—or shoes, or something—and her interest in the arts revolved solely around the fact that she could buy recognition. Something she clearly craved, as did many arts supporters. If they didn’t have the talent, they’d find another way to memorialize their names.
Pell knew his thoughts were harsh, and that many patrons were genuinely interested in supporting the community and helping where they could. Lydia Hahn just wasn’t one of them.
He had once heard that she’d had the manager of Ruby Prime—the fanciest, costliest steakhouse in Philly—fired because her photo wasn’t on their wall of fame. Apparently, she’d sent them a framed headshot and was incensed to learn they hadn’t seen fit to mount it in a prominent place.
“Looks like your Romeo has a girlfriend.”
Pell turned to glare at Amelia, who merely grinned at him. “Why are you like this?”
“Like what?” She popped a grape into her mouth. Always eating, his girl. “You were totally eyeballing the man candy. I’m allowed to give you shit about it.”
“If I didn’t love you so much, I’d kill you in your sleep and memorialize it on canvas.”
Amelia laughed, but she needed to take him seriously. Artists were a temperamental lot.
Pell shook himself. It was time to get his head in the game. Spotting Brianne across the room, he grabbed Amelia’s hand and dragged her toward his corner of the exhibit.
“I should at least stand by in case anyone wants to chat with the artist. Right?”
“Now you’re thinking clearly.” Amelia squeezed his fingers. “This is your moment. Enjoy it.”
If she didn’t catch Pell glancing over his shoulder at Mr. Dark and Delicious, well, that was his secret to keep.
* * *
Mal had forgotten how dry Lydia’s personality was. If the discussion wasn’t about her bottom line, it was hell to maintain any sort of flow in the conversation. If she could have appeared less interested in the art on display, Mal would have been impressed. How she could be so disinterested, he did not understand. Some works were truly inspired.
“These little galleries make such an effort, I feel obligated to at least show my support.” Lydia held a glass of white wine in her slim fingers.
She was a tall woman, nearly eye-to-eye with Mal in her four-inch heels. Her thin frame showed not even a hint of a curve, save for her small breasts which appeared to have been harnessed inside something too severe to be called a bra and not structured enough to be called a corset.
Rigid. That was the word that came to mind when Mal thought of Lydia Hahn. Rigid and difficult to please.
“I don’t know much about art,” Mal lied. “But I’m impressed with the exhibit so far. I had no idea Philadelphia harbored such diverse talent.”
She tittered as if he’d compared the Mayer to the Louvre. “Really, Malcolm. I thought you had more discerning taste. Or perhaps that too fell to your former partner. Whatever the firm’s shortcomings, the offices at Cohn and Zaha were somewhat tastefully appointed.”
Mal grit his teeth. Maybe this meeting wasn’t such a great idea.
The gallery, though smaller than he’d imagined, was a treasure trove. Brianne Mayer had an eye for talent. There were works in every medium including mixed media sculptures, and watercolors, but the exhibit was dominated by oil paintings. The unifying theme, From Many, One, was well-represented in the offerings.
Mal had already spied a glass vase that would look fantastic on his mantel at the new apartment, but he had seen no more work from Pellam Lindt. As his chat with Lydia kept getting interrupted by people stopping to greet her, Mal found his gaze traveling around the room in search of the Lindt pieces.
“My dear Ms. Hahn, so lovely of you to join us this evening.”
Brianne Mayer offered Lydia one of those barely-there hugs Mal despised. By the look on her face, Ms. Mayer didn’t seem to enjoy them either. Her narrowed gray eyes hovered over a tentative smile as Lydia assessed her.
“Brianne.” Lydia mouthed the name as if it were a chore. “I wasn’t planning to attend, really, but Mr. Zaha here persuaded me.”
Brianne’s flinch was barely noticeable. This was a woman used to dealing with the likes of Lydia Hahn.
Mal dialed up the volume on his considerable charm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Mayer.”
He watched as recognition filled her eyes. Her smile for him was warmer than the one she’d offered Lydia.
“Mr. Zaha, it’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Please, call me Malcolm.”
“Of course, Malcolm. I’m Brianne.” She extended her hand to shake, and Mal accepted it. Her skin was smooth and warm to the touch, her handshake firm but inviting.
She was a lovely woman, with olive skin and gleaming chestnut hair that fell in waves just past her shoulders. Her makeup was minimal, especially in contrast to Lydia’s.
Mal returned her smile, holding her gaze a little longer than necessary, and watched as the color rose in her cheeks.
Brianne extracted her hand from his and cleared her throat. “Your assistant said you would be stopping by tonight. I assume it’s to see the other pieces we’ve held for you?”
“Did you actually buy something from the gallery, Malcolm?” Lydia’s voice held more than a note of incredulity.
Mal chose to ignore it, and he could see that Brianne hadn’t been fazed by it either. She was probably used to such comments. And again, Mal wondered why he thought meeting Lydia there, or even meeting with her at all, had been a good idea.
Ah, right. The legitimacy. Pazzo would be an enormous coup for Zaha & Associates and having Lydia as a client could open the door to others. Still, Mal wondered if it was worth it.
“Malcolm, have you had a chance to see Pell’s other work?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“What sort of name is Pell?” Lydia scoffed.
“It’s short for Pellam. Pellam Lindt,” Brianne supplied. “Mr. Za . . . er, Malcolm acquired one of Pell’s most important paintings last week.”
“Really, Brianne. I hope you didn’t trick Mal
colm into buying some monstrosity on the pretense that this Pell had produced some sort of masterpiece.” Lydia shook her head disapprovingly as her gaze drifted around the room. With no more than a few words and a look, she had made it clear how little regard she had for the works on display, leaving Mal to wonder just why the hell she frequented these events.
He also bristled at Lydia’s commentary about the Lindt painting. Mal had a direct view of the piece from the window in his office and had lost minutes staring at the thing. The more he’d studied it, the more details had emerged.
There were hidden symbols within Lindt’s brushstrokes, things one could only see from certain angles and only from very close-up, where the paint was the thickest. Mal had found a mouth in one spot, open and waiting for something to fill it, with the barest hint of a tongue resting on the surprisingly inviting bottom lip.
In another area, he’d detected the unmistakable shape of someone’s ass, rounded and pert. And, unless his eyes had deceived him, the distinct outline of a handprint on one cheek.
On the bottom left corner, near Lindt’s signature, Mal thought he could make out the fat head of an erect cock.
These weren’t things someone could have seen on a digital print, or even from more than a foot away. But Mal had studied the painting for what seemed like hours. And it had lit a fire inside him he’d long thought dormant, making him even more determined to meet Pellam Lindt.
Brianne seemed to take Lydia’s comments in stride.
“Well, Lydia darling, Van Gogh was widely regarded as a hack by his peers which shows that having an eye for true talent isn’t something that everyone can possess.”
At that moment, Mal fell a little in love with Brianne Mayer. He was about to compliment her eye for beauty when his eyes were suddenly filled with a vision his brain couldn’t quite comprehend. Everything inside him went still. Just stopped. His breath, his thoughts, his pulse. It all ceased.
The man’s blond hair wasn’t a trait that usually appealed to Mal, and his skin was so pale it practically glowed under the gallery lights. Well under six feet, with a slight build and delicate features, he shouldn’t have captured Mal’s attention. But captured it he had.